Lucinda's Solution

by Nancy Roman

  “After dinner,” I admonished.

  We sat down to a mound of fish and potatoes, and Martin was buoyant and talkative. He described in detail his conversation with rotund Helga, who ate half of all her product and still made a profit. “And just like Jack Sprat, her husband is as skinny as a scarecrow. And they bicker all the time. They argue about the color of the sky,” he said.

  “The sky is blue,” said Charlotte.

  “You will not get an argument from me,” said Martin.

  He even offered to bathe the children and read them their stories and put them to bed. “So you can have a few moments to read your book,” he explained.

  Or to put off an unpleasant discussion, I thought. I hoped he would give me time to say goodbye to my few friends in New Haven before I was sent back to Springfield.

  I did try to read, or at least sit with my book and not fidget.

  When all was quiet in the parlor, Martin returned and I put the kettle on for tea.

  “I promise not to drink like that again,” said Martin, “but just for tonight, can I please have a little something in this tea?” And I took the bottle out and added a few tablespoons to his cup.

  We sat. We drank our tea and looked at our hands.

  “When I met your sister, you were just a little girl,” he finally said. “A smart, outspoken, wise little girl. I was delighted to have a little sister like you.”

  “I adored you,” I admitted, although I do not believe he took me as literally as I meant it.

  “How could she leave me?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “I can’t think of you as anything but that smart little girl.”

  “I’m still her, that smart little girl … I can’t be Catherine.”

  He covered his face.

  “I’m so sorry I called you Catherine last night. I hurt you both. I don’t know what to do.”

  “And I’m sorry I forced you to share your bed. You don’t have to. I can put Jonathan in your bed and I’ll sleep in the parlor with Charlotte.”

  “No,” said Martin. “We are husband and wife. But I am not sure I can… do … that… again.”

  I nearly didn’t say it. God help me, I should not have said it. But I did.

  “I know this is just horrid. Sinful. But… if you have the … need… in the night in the dark … it is all right with me… if you… pretend…”

  Martin looked up. Looked at me in confusion. “Pretend?”

  “Pretend I’m Catherine.”

  “Oh Lucinda! I’m so sorry.”

  “I know I’m appalling. I will go to hell.”

  “You’re not appalling; our situation is appalling,” Martin tried to smile, but it ended as a wry laugh. “We will go to hell together.”

  CHAPTER 31

  In June, we took the children to the Bronx Zoo, as we had promised. Every moment of it was exciting - and not just for the children. The day was glorious. The train ride to Fordham, then the trek to the zoo. And the animals! We saw every animal in Mother’s big book, and even more we had never heard of: barbary lions, and crooked-horned kudus, and the most improbable thylacine, which looked like a large-headed striped dog, but had a pouch like a kangaroo. Charlotte could not contain herself when she saw peacocks spread their feathers, and I had to take her to the washroom for an emergency change of clothes. Jonathan skipped from one exhibit to another, greeting each animal with a formal, “Hello there, Giraffes,” “Hello there, Elephants,” and introducing himself, “I’m Jonathan Blaisdell and I am a human boy.” We ate frankfurters bought from a cart and lemonades and delicious ice cream cones that would have required another change of clothes had I brought any. Instead we washed sticky fingers and faces in a fountain, and overlooked the drips on the children’s clothes. As a birthday present, we purchased a lovely cloth walrus for Jonathan. And for Charlotte, who did not understand the individuality of birthdays yet, a small wooden peacock. Mostly what was wonderful is that everyone we met in the crowded zoo took us for a real family. And indeed, we felt so.

  We carried the sleepy children back to the train at the end of the day. Riding home in the waning light, Martin took my hand.

  CHAPTER 32

  Jonathan wasn’t the only one celebrating a birthday in June. The following week was my birthday. I was eighteen.

  Martin came home from work with a dozen white roses.

  “For my child bride, who is no longer a child,” he said, presenting the bouquet with a flourish.

  “Why thank you, Sweetheart,” I said with a dramatic curtsey.

  Jonathan started to giggle. “Is Papa your sweetheart, really?”

  “Yes, he is,” I said, although in truth his father had not touched me since that wretched night.

  “The roses are not all,” said Martin, and, looking at Jonathan with a wink, “Sweetheart of mine.” Jonathan giggled more and Charlotte attempted to curtsey as I had. “I just stopped at the landlord’s and Mrs. Battle has agreed to come up and watch the children, so we can go out to a restaurant. Just us two adults.”

  A restaurant. I had not been to a restaurant in more than two years. And New Haven had some fine dining establishments that I’d read about in the newspaper.

  I found a vase in a cupboard to hold the roses, and quickly changed into the pink dress I was married in. I cut one rose and pinned it to my dress. I put my hair up and inspected myself by kneeling on the bed to get a glimpse of as much of me as possible in the small mirror that hung above the dresser. I thought I looked quite grown up. As Martin was washing up, I surreptitiously cut into a beet. I took a small hand towel and rubbed it against the cut beet. I applied a gentle dab to each cheek. Yes, I was certainly a grown woman.

  “You look beautiful, Mama,” said Charlotte. “I want to go.”

  “Not this time, dear,” I said. “But you will have lots of fun with Mrs. Battle. She knows ever so many songs.”

  “She sings about angels and bathtubs,” said Charlotte.

  “Yes, isn’t that wonderful?” I said, although I had not the slightest idea what the little girl meant.

  Martin reappeared in a fresh shirt and a few minutes later Mrs. Battle arrived and clasped the children to her sizeable chest.

  “I love these babies,” she said, “so you two go out and have a wonderful evening.”

  And we did. Martin had chosen a small restaurant with candles and checkered tablecloths. The restaurant was called Il Forno - “The Oven” - said Martin, but how much nicer it sounded in Italian. Martin ordered fancy food - food I had never even heard of: Lasagna, Gnocchi, and oh my goodness, Cannoli and Sorbeto.

  We drank wine. “Not too much for either of us,” Martin warned, and we split a bottle, which I thought was quite a bit indeed, but the bottle was empty before our meal was finished. “We might as well drink now,” he said, “Do you know what will happen in January?”

  Well, I was proud that I read the newspaper each day. “The Prohibition Amendment has passed, and will go into effect in January. No more drinking for Americans.”

  Martin smiled. “You’re probably happy about that.”

  “No, I like my beer. I used to drink beer with the O’Hara boys on Thursdays after work at the lumberyard. They always bought me a pint.”

  He laughed. “You are full of surprises, Lucinda! Can you drive an automobile too?”

  “I think I probably could, if anyone would let me.”

  “I believe we’ll have an automobile someday. And why not?”

  “And perhaps a house of our own?”

  “We were saving for that,” Martin said, and just as suddenly the celebration turned solemn.

  “We’re trying,” I said. “We’re not doing so badly.”

  “It’s awful,” said Martin.

&
nbsp; “But we are truly trying.”

  “Yes. We are.”

  “Martin, did you come here with Catherine?”

  “No,” he answered. “Never. This place is for you.”

  I decided to believe him.

  The next day, I received a small package from my mother.

  It was a bankbook for a savings account. The balance reflected all the money I had saved in the five years I had worked for my father. And more.

  Mother had included a note.

  Dear Lucinda,

  Now you are 18. A grown woman. All your life you have done the right thing, and Father and I are proud of you - you are good, and strong, and beautiful. You dutifully saved your earnings as you promised, and unknown to me, your father matched each nickel with one of his own. Although he often argued with you about going on to college, he secretly wanted very much to see you earn a degree. Now you are dutiful again, taking selflessly the responsibilities of wife and mother. You have accepted a future not of your choosing. But I am convinced that one day you will have the opportunity to do the right thing just for yourself. Save this money for that time - to help you accomplish your goals.

  Happy birthday, Lucinda. Be happy.

  Love, Mother

  I gave the children a nice lunch of hard-cooked eggs and ham, and settled them down for a nap. I let them sleep together in the big feather bed, and let them spread out all their toy animals at the foot of the bed, to guard them while they slept.

  Then I sat down with a cup of tea in the kitchen, and the small blue bankbook, and had a long quiet cry.

  CHAPTER 33

  The end of June turned very warm. Our third-floor apartment held the dry baking heat like my father’s attic. We kept the curtains drawn in the hopes that the sun wouldn’t find us and scorch us further. We all lay on top of our coverlets in the evening and opened the windows, hoping for one cool breeze - and no bats.

  During the day, we stayed under the trees in the park as much as possible. Often, at the end of the day, when Martin returned from work, he would seek us out there, not even bothering to stop home first. We ate mostly sandwiches and fruit, as we could not bear to turn on the stove or oven.

  One afternoon, the children and I were forced to flee the park as the clouds darkened and ran over us in threatening herds. Even Jonathan saw the comparison. “The clouds are like the buffalo in the zoo!” he said.

  We didn’t quite beat the storm, and we ran the last block in hard rain. I worried about lightning, but in truth, the soaking rain was such a relief, we started to skip and jump in puddles.

  “Let’s be ducks!” I cried.

  And we quacked our way up the staircase, dripping wet and stomping on each step.

  The door at the second-floor landing opened. There stood Mr. Giametti.

  “Oh, I am so sorry,” I apologized. “We are too loud and too raucous.”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I am quite well today. I think the storm is clearing the air and lightening my burdensome head.”

  “The wind is pushing the rain sideways,” I said. “If you open your kitchen window, you might be able to feel it on your face. It may be soothing,” I suggested.

  “Thank you. I do think I’ll try it.”

  “And we will be extra quiet,” I said. “I think we have gotten all the whooping out of us.”

  “Can I give one more quack?” asked Jonathan.

  “You may,” said Mr. Giametti.

  “Quack!”

  “Quack quack!” said Charlotte. “I had two!”

  Mr. Giametti laughed.

  “She has only just learned to count,” I explained. “Of course, once she gets past three, I cannot guarantee the results.”

  “Mrs. Blaisdell,” Giametti said, and it took me aback because, after six months of marriage, I still did not have much occasion to hear anyone call me that, “if you would like to get the children and yourself into dry clothes, and then come back downstairs, I could offer you all some cold lemonade. My wife has gone to visit a friend, and she has left me a large pitcher of her delicious concoction.”

  “Please, Mama!” said Jonathan. “I would like a comtoction.”

  “Yes, thank you, that would be wonderful!”

  “We will be good!” said Charlotte.

  “Why of course,” said Mr. Giametti. “I will expect you soon. Would shortbread be in order?”

  “Oh Mama!” said Jonathan. “Please!”

  “We will be back in moments!” I said.

  And we ran up the stairs (as quietly as the children could be, given their excitement) and I toweled their hair and put them in dry clothes. I quickly changed into a dry dress myself, and managed to find dry shoes for us all, which technically were just stockings for Charlotte, since she had only one pair of shoes that still fit - she had grown so much in the last few months.

  Downstairs, I had Jonathan knock softly, just three raps, although it was all he could do not to bang repeatedly on the door. It was curious how excited they were. But I think they had been rather frightened of the forbidding mysterious neighbor, and were enormously relieved to find him pleasant and welcoming. Or perhaps that is how I felt myself.

  Mr. Giametti had set the kitchen table for four. With pretty green napkins and the pitcher of lemonade set on a yellow cloth in the middle of the table. He had put out small plates with a generous slice of shortbread on each plate. As I had suggested, the kitchen window was open to the driving rain, and he had put down a towel on the windowsill and another on the floor to absorb the puddles.

  The man himself was tall and very slender. He held himself straight with the stiff posture I had seen in people that were steeling themselves against pain. Like the assistant pastor in our church in Springfield, before he succumbed to a spreading cancer.

  He had dark hair, worn a bit long over his forehead. He had not shaved that day, and the blue tint to his jaw was matched by heavy bluish shadows under his eyes. He was certainly not well. But his smile was warm.

  The children were sweet and minded their manners. They sat at the table and held their lemonade glasses with both hands as if they were drinking something precious and delicate.

  “Mrs. Giametti’s comtoction is tasty!” said Jonathan.

  “I will give her your compliments,” said Mr. Giametti.

  On a table in the far corner of the kitchen were four violins, one of which had no strings and another broken off at the neck.

  “What do you do with the violins?” I asked.

  “I repair them,” said Mr. Giametti. “Since the war, I have not yet been well enough to return to work, but I have managed to make ends meet by repairing all sorts of musical instruments. I’m best at violins. And luckily, the college students at Yale are very hard on their instruments.”

  And he walked over to the table and picked up a violin. He played After The Ball, and oh, I thought my heart would break.

  “Oh Mr. Giametti,” I exclaimed. “You play like the angels! Why haven’t I heard you from upstairs?”

  “I don’t like to disturb people, especially when I know they are trying so hard not to disturb me. I do my repairs when I have heard you go out… or when you are being noisy yourself,” he added with a smile.

  “Well, that would explain it,” I laughed. “Although we do try, we are pretty much noisy most of the time.”

  He played several more songs for us, mostly slow and incredibly sad, but one lively tune from Italy that tempted the children to get up and dance. “Go ahead,” he said. And they skipped to the beat of the music, holding hands, in sort of a comically fast ring-around-the-rosy.

  “Thank you so much for the refreshments and the lovely music,” I said. “It’s time for the children to have their naps.” The little ones groaned, but I could see t
hey would be asleep within a minute of laying down their heads.

  “I’m glad to have the company,” said Mr. Giametti. “I am hopeful I will have more good days, and will be able to get about again. And have more visits.”

  I shook his hand and promised we would come again. Jonathan also gave Mr. Giametti a solemn handshake, and Charlotte kissed his cheek.

  CHAPTER 34

  By the beginning of August, it was apparent to me that I was - to use the coarsest of terms - pregnant.

  Martin had only been intimate with me that one night. Since that time, we slept in the same bed, but kissed goodnight only. My terrible offer to him that he had my permission to pretend I was Catherine was not acted upon. Although I had meant it at the time, I do believe that it would have been the end for us. We would wait, without explicitly telling each other so, until he could make love to me as Lucinda.

  But here I was, in August, expecting a child conceived on the only night it had been possible.

  I did not know how to tell Martin. But I knew it had to be done soon. My friend Constance had already guessed. We had been seated at a bench in the park, watching our children play some silly game they had invented. I stood to call out to Jonathan to be a little more gentle, and a breeze blew my lightweight dress up against my body.

  “You have that little roundness,” Constance remarked. “The kind that for a slim woman such as yourself only means one thing.”

  “I’m afraid so,” I confessed.

  “Afraid? Not delighted?”

  “Constance, I am eighteen and already the mother of two,” I replied. I did not tell her that my husband did not love me and that only a drunken sopor had induced him to touch me. I did not tell her that he had touched me only one time. I did not tell her that he had married me at my father’s insistence. I told her that I feared the amount of work involved.